by Ryan Adams
because
surely you see how the aged say and laugh like children
who have seen
right
TONIGHT
we ride
but first
we must nap
and
think
about
all that
53 and 38
it rained a little today
and ivy went hush
said can’t you see we’re busy growing up things
and you’re thinking out loud, stop talking to us
something in the news
bout how they moved a statue of Ramses
cause it was deteriorating from car exhaust
I don’t remember where they were taking it
probably closer to the pyramids XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
I started reading something about these fishermen XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
and a story about Picasso and his little dog Lump
a dachshund from Germany, no really, Picasso was from Spain of course
although they didn’t live in Spain
they lived in the Villa de California on a hillside in Cannes
there was something about Mozart too
at the bottom of the page
it was bold and italicized but it only said his name
I could never pick up a drink again
without feeling poisoned, I’m spiritually allergic but whatev
what kind of god do you have? do you like plays?
the wedding went on for 5 straight nights
and 5 straight days
five days straight
he was 53 and she is 38
c’mon, let’s go
I don’t know
what I was thinking
I guess I just got sad
for a while
I was just afraid of being loved
and feeling good
being listened to
listening
understanding
and being understood
I don’t know
I just wanted to be alone
alone with somebody there
so I wouldn’t get scared
I didn’t really like myself
am I saying too much?
I hope not
if anybody feels that way
and it helps
then I will sing to you
while we are here
without a touch
some things were made to be felt
so go outside and watch the stars come up
don’t get caught up in way that it’s designed
it isn’t for us
to analyze
it’s up there for us to feel
like somehow
everything that got touched
turned to the light
and I can hold that thought for long enough
it makes the pain disappear
and if there isn’t anything left
in the fight
throw in the towel
take off the gloves
and leave the ring
and go outside and listen to the sky sing
look at all the stars lighting up everything
darkness isn’t anything
but the space in between the light
the light is so real
and it’s where you are from
so let’s go
c’mon
The Wind-Up
are there any volunteers by choice in the ways of the heart
who grow up strong like their fathers and sprout dreams
to be piano movers
or is it just something you inherit for need of
replacement not genetics not something in somebody’s bloodstream
and is there anyone who moves those things
who gets lazy on break and twinkles at the keys
who gets strayed from the day’s work and carried away
and ten years later is sweating moments before he hits the
stage at carnegie hall
after being nervous for days, knowing his parents are gonna be there
and he feels pressure to play it good, considering
it was them that told him he was throwing it all away
on a shot in the dark, with a sure thing right in front of his face
it’s 5:21 and my plants are in
and phone is ringing and the nighttime is coming.
Land This Bird
just below me
the crystal city my home forever
lonely or not
manhattan island
place of ghostbusters and drunk riots
is someplace downstairs of this plane
I can feel it
my bones recharged
my body satanic almost and my kidneys blah
from pressure
and klonopin
god
if I were a drunk still I would drink it dry tonight
snort it end to end
call everyone
over and over
beginning to end
in the blackened and brown of the cobblestoned parts of
that town
that fucking box of magic money too much honey that you
all hate
mainly though,
I’d come home to a magic brew
a tea she made
that I loved
and that was her way of telling me
so I knew
boy, how it calmed me so
to lose a lover is the worst of it
but to feel the energy of new places
and lose it
and lose it ON PURPOSE
you know, to be fully american about the loss and pain
that is plain ol’ living, baby
and I live in new york
in the borough of manhattan
another bored, overpaid
dentist
I listen to black metal on my headphones and dream of
when
they land this bird so I can smoke and be sad again
perfectly alone
and in love
with a girl named ( ) …
who is so gone
I don’t even know where she lives anymore
no love lost
for the lost boys
we ride tonight
I ride
Quicksilver
the back of the hand, as it moves across the air
in strike patterns
giving new definitions to light
fingernails
or webs
it is this motion that moves the notes of the day
as I do not count
in my head
but sit
silently and pray
for
a
destiny
and a fate
beyond the glare of such dim phrase and labored breath
and tolerance
when considered
some might die poor
some might die rich
but
the body is the body
and
when the earth is parted
it’s nothing but a ditch
it’s what you left
that
builds the tower or not
draws the tears
of joy on the face of a hope
not
tolerances and aggressions of time and ability to cope
tie the knot
at the end of the rope
if you must
or turn
and
while you can
fill every heart as your own full of laughter loud as gold
and
passion
quick as silver
Me, Minus Simple Dream
minus simple dreams
I don’t mind the teapot and Dolphy and the cliché
because
I sit up here in stac
ks of books and few clothes
and
some good old shuffle-clutter
to keep me saturated
at all times
even
when I close my eyes
and
my god
that is such a fucking sometimes
such a fucking sometimes
that
thing
sleeping
but you know the kind
where
youwake
hairsamess
and
the yawn feels like you are coming on her chest
I mean
refreshed
I don’t know why I say things like that
where I got a mouth like this
but in here
it feels
alright
I guess
because I am two years sober today
and that is not poetry
dear reader
but
a willingness to confess
that those nights
man
they feel ever so slightly lonely
like you
were the star
of your own black-and-white movie
ABOUT
nothing
but the ticking of a clock that should be quiet
but it is so
so loud
and
then
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEECCCCCHHHH
goes Nettie the tea kettle
reminding me
a lady is in the house
if only
a
porcelain one
a different porceling one
anyway
a kettle
to
warm my stomach
make it settled
and
like candles
it’s a home
when you take your shoes off
breathe in
and light
a candle
outside
the
skyline
is a crown
above a grid struck
with strangers
stuck
to their own skin
and battles and
I don’t like it when
we exchange unneeded glances
I
am here
out on the street
I think
to myself
at night
to
be alone
do you see laughter, a woman carrying flowers and balloons?
no
just me
so
I don’t mind the teapot and Dolphy and the cliché
because
I sit up here in stacks of books and few clothes
and
some good old shuffle-clutter
to keep me saturated
at all times
even
when I close my eyes
and
my god
endless
me
like
I was
–txt mssng–
and
procrastikissing my own records
asses
perfect
I guess
minus simple dreams
Tea
Once in a while it becomes time
time to paint over the face
one brush stroke at a time
until it’s gone
then it’s really summer again
and the ice cubes melt into the glass
on the porch
into the tea
until they are gone and the drink is ruined
and nothing in the Bible can save you. now.
My Price
my price
is the prize of the bed
and the high of the fuck
and that sucks
but that’s my price
and
what it costs
because
I am a believer
and it’s what I do
whether or not
you do
because
beyond that gate
is something new
god
or something forgot
I am
just like that
and my price
is high
like the sun on the metal
of the beams
of a skyscraper
punching holes in the sky
or legs
at the foot of a car
steering it
through canyons
my body wants to
enter in
righteous like an angry shepherd
flocked with a messy white gang
his own
to lead her into her room
and just bang
on that door
for laughs
is what a love is
and that
is my price
i hate myself
“i hate myself
now
fully
which is a step
at least
in some direction
because
i must have deserved it
i must have
and
i don’t care anymore
if
the light dies
and
we all
drift
into
nothing
i
deserve
nothing
so
maybe
just
cast me off
with a
push
because
i
am not
afraid
of the falls
not afraid
i
just
wish
it
would
stop
i
wish
i
could
shut
it
off
rip
it
out
of
my
fucking
chest
not
even
to sleep
just
not
this”
17 Poems a Day
if I said I wrote 17 poems a day
at most
and 3 at the least
why would you believe that
for a minute
while your eyes are resting
on each space between the words
and letting the letters bleed
inked
into a pool of white
I wonder
is it me you really hear in here
or are your eyes
unattached to your ears
but to your heart
loyal
and like a dog
hard to lose
if I said I saw the entrance into heaven in a dose
of over-the-counter cold flu stuff
and I meant it all the way
would you go there
go there
with me
or would you just sink,
I pretend I am the antarctic and I found a glacier
and
look at what happened now
OK?
I keep the language simple
I tell myself, “it is to be more like e. e. cummings”
but it is because I am afraid
I will misspell
and
that is why
I have no unfinished work
oh well
you feast on my bones anyway
silent
far away
long before we are this way
reader
your hand here
h
olding this page
I wish it
were
not more
like my face
hidden
but
like a sketch artist
it begins
and
it ends this way
with nothing but the line
and
a directional line
pointing which direction
a real one might
but
with words
then I say something about myself to reveal a truth like,
“I have never liked being alone
but I am afraid of others
their colorful faces
words
and forgiving
it opens a darkness in me
something
like the past
if it were made of coarse fabric
cotton with thorny vine
and shadow
in a room painted all white
with no light
but one
above and far far
too bright”
so
if you see the sign
or the lights outside
it’s because
I am
becoming
something
again
and again
and I liked you when you lived in michigan
(you might never have lived there,
even once,
but pretend)
and
if you opened the door
it wouldn’t matter
most of me
it never gets in
I stay
inside
even when I am outside, even then
even then
but
if you wanted to break the lock
on a man
know that it is through his weakness for good shoulders
that do not cave
and keep the language simple
and
maybe it would be two digits
then maybe
we’re one away
but
my heart is a defensive lineman
for my
ability to
shake you like a christmas tree
on
no holiday
but for the heat and a chiseled light
lazy on a cotton sheet
in the
middle of the day
my
head is full
of fantasy
reader
fantasy
is how you and I
we got this way
even
if
you hate me
and
this
we now, in this moment
will never
separate
what
a
gyp
right?
or
is it
ok?
Joy
When you say a thing that I write too much
I dream myself a thousand-plus
more books I wrote myself
and imagine them in a swinging stack
fainting
and collapsing onto you
as they crush your bones
in the name of art
in the name of american idealism
